A Mortal Dilemma
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are enjoying an intimate moment in Aziraphale's shop when a rude interloper threatens everything they have together. Aziraphale x Crowley


"Oh … oh, Crowley … oh Go-mmm …"

"Ya like that, angel?" Crowley whispers, admiring the marks he's made on his angel's pale neck, each one sealed with a feather-light kiss, wickedly proud that this is the fifth time he's almost gotten Aziraphale to take the Almighty's name in vain. Lying beneath his angel on the lumpy sofa in his bookshop, arms wrapped around him, hands keeping that column of soft skin locked to his lips, he has his angel at his complete mercy.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Y-yes …" Aziraphale stutters, pushing up on his palms to catch a breath only for Crowley to draw him back into the temptation of his arms.

"Do you want me to continue?"

Aziraphale's brows soar to the Heavens. "Do you mean to tell me that stopping is an option?"

"Absolutely." Crowley's yellow eyes flicker over his angel's flushed face. "Stopping is always an option. If that's what you want, we can put the kettle on, read a book, finish a crossword, get plastered ..."

"No," Aziraphale says. "No, I don't want that. I don't think I'd ever choose that over this."

"Why not?"

"Because then I'd have to leave you. Leave your arms, I mean. And now that I have you, I don't ever want to be far from you."

"Even if that meant never cracking open another book? Just so we can do this?"

Aziraphale sniffs. "Don't be _ridiculous_. We can do both at the same time."

Crowley smirks. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Would you like me to show you?"

Crowley mimics a cartoonish attempt at thinking it over while hovering close to Aziraphale's throat. "Nah. Perhaps another time." Then he goes back to the task of marking Aziraphale up.

Airy musical notes tinkle in Aziraphale's ears but he ignores it. That normally happens when Crowley miracles in from wherever, but seeing as he's here now, it can't be him. The thought that it might be someone else, manifesting into the room without knocking first doesn't occur to him.

Because such a thing would be both illegal and rude.

But it's Crowley who sees, Crowley who takes notice, bumping Aziraphale's chin gently with his temple to make him look around.

"What in the …?" Aziraphale mutters because stationed not too far from the sofa they're sprawled out on is Sandalphon, rocking back and forth on their heels, hands clasped in front of their belly, grinning like the dickens.

"Well, well, well – if it isn't our little fallen angel and his demon boyfriend."

"_Sandalphon_?" Aziraphale gasps, too stunned by the Archangel's presence to climb off Crowley's lap and face them properly. "What on Earth are _you_ doing here?"

"I've come to deliver a message from Gabriel," they say, pausing after for obvious dramatic effect.

"Yes, yes, get on with it!" Aziraphale barks. Crowley snickers, every fiber of his being vibrating from his angel on top of him, desperate to be rid of their intruder so he can go back to being kissed.

"Principality Aziraphale, you've been called back to Heaven effective immediately. I've been sent here to deliver you personally."

This time, Aziraphale launches off his demon's lap and up onto his feet, leaving Crowley draped on the sofa, on his guard but unmoving from the spot. "I'm sorry you made the trip all the way for nothing but I'm not going."

"You don't have a choice."

"I most certainly do."

"You may have forgotten, but you aren't subject to free will."

"Yes, I am."

"Free will is reserved for mortals. You, Aziraphale, are subject to _our_ will."

"Since _when_?" Aziraphale squawks.

"Since the beginning of time. You're an _angel_. That makes you property of the Almighty."

"The Almighty, yes, but not you, not Gabriel, not any of the Archangels."

Sandalphon makes an irritated noise, smacking the roof of their mouth with their tongue. "Same difference."

"Yeah, no. I don't think that's how that works. Even _I_ know that," Crowley says. "But go off, I guess."

"I wasn't talking to you, _demon_," Sandalphon says with a steely glare for Crowley.

"Too bad. I'm talking to you, _baldy_."

"Crowley …" Aziraphale warns quietly, sitting back down and putting a hand on the demon's forearm.

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" Sandalphon asks.

"You're probably not. But that just makes you stupider than you look."

"_Crowley_!"

"We've played this game your way for far too long," Sandalphon continues, focused on Crowley as if Aziraphale isn't sitting right there, "but that's not the way this is going to work anymore. You've had your fun." Their eyes shift to Aziraphale's face, and for the first time, the angel can imagine what those poor people in Sodom and Gomorrah saw right before they turned to salt. "Now it's time for you to come back to our side."

"I have no intention of coming back to _your side_!" Aziraphale insists. "Not until things change upstairs. Even then, the subject is a matter of much debate. Either way, you do not have permission to be in my shop. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

Sandalphon shakes their head in disappointment. "What do you think you're doing, Aziraphale? Do you think this is _life_? A reject angel shacking up with a reject demon and doing what? Wasting your Divine gifts lazing around in an old, musty bookshop?"

"You pay him no mind, angel," Crowley says, turning his arm over to hold Aziraphale's. "They're still sore that they lost. He can't touch you. He can't touch _either_ of us."

"And that's where you're wrong …" Sandalphon pauses, their expression changing to discomfort as they smack their mouth open and closed. "For Heaven's sake! It's so damned _dry_ in here. Probably these dusty books." Sandalphon reaches into the inside pocket of their coat and pulls out a silver flask. "One cinder, the tiniest spark even, and this whole place would go up like a matchbox, wouldn't it?"

Crowley sits up straighter, his grip on Aziraphale's arm tightening. Sandalphon grins.

"Of course _you_ would know that, now wouldn't you, demon?"

"My angel said _leave_!" Crowley makes to stand but Aziraphale keeps him grounded with a gentle squeeze. "So get on!"

"I take it that's a _no_ then?"

"That's a _no_," Aziraphale says.

Sandalphon shakes their head, appearing far too amused for someone who's presumably lost an important argument, and that makes Aziraphale wary.

"The two of you …" They tut "… you think you're so slick. That you've got everyone fooled. But just you wait. You might have him now, but that doesn't mean you can keep him."

Sandalphon wipes their mouth with the back of their hand, then snaps their fingers, disappearing in a swirl of blue shimmer into thin air. And as relieved as Aziraphale feels by their retreat, something about how easy that was doesn't sit well in his bones. He's nervous, anxious over something he's missing.

And he's right.

It's odd. Aziraphale had been so focused on the angel going away – and they did just that, they went away – that he never considered there might be collateral damage.

That flask. It seemed so innocuous. Odd since most angels don't consume or imbibe, but harmless nonetheless. Admittedly, Aziraphale doesn't know much about Sandalphon, but if he knows anything about Archangels, there's a reason behind everything they do. Even the slightest, most insignificant gesture is important. Wiping their mouth with their hand, then snapping their fingers - none of that was necessary. It was posturing.

But why?

And that's when Aziraphale notices it.

_Senses it_ is actually closer to the operative term.

A drop of water flying through the air.

It takes less than a second to travel, between the time Sandalphon snapped their fingers and Aziraphale put two and two together.

Before Aziraphale can move, before he can even think, the water drop lands on Crowley's skin.

It only takes a drop. Aziraphale knows that.

He doesn't need to hear the demon wail to know what it is, what's happening to him.

_Holy water._

Sandalphon had been drinking Holy Water. They wiped it off their mouth and flicked a drop in the air, aimed in Crowley's direction.

And now, Crowley is disintegrating before Aziraphale's eyes.

"No!" Aziraphale screams. "NO!"

"Azira-!"

"No!"

Like the flying Holy Water, it only takes a second for Aziraphale to act.

A second of fire.

A second of fury.

A second of love.

A second of pure rage.

A second where Aziraphale makes a hundred decisions and gambles and negotiations so quickly his body starts working before his mind has come to peace with what he's going to do. His hands move fast as lightning, pulling power from the far reaches of the Universe, combining together from above … and from below.

If someone were to ask Aziraphale how he did it, he'd never be able to tell them. He couldn't repeat it if he tried. If they asked him how he knew he _could_, that would be a harder question to answer. He doesn't know farther than he can perceive, as if someone else were casting the magic for him. With his right hand, he brings down all the power of Heaven he can rally to his command, and with his left, somehow, inexplicably, he calls upon the power of Hell.

Before the drop of Holy Water can burn through Crowley completely, Aziraphale lays hands on him, on his chest over his heart, his celestial flesh a swirling pyre of blessing and damnation. A flash of blistering white fills Aziraphale's shop, flooding every corner, lighting the whole of the inside to firework intensity, so powerful it leaves shadowy reliefs of every book, every teacup, every trinket burned onto his walls.

It happens in a second.

One single second.

The light bleeds away.

The Holy Water evaporates.

The fire and flood alive in Aziraphale's hands subside and the angel's vision returns. He looks around at the damage that's been done – the bleached walls, the shadows bearing witness, a few of his books turned to dust.

And on the floor at his feet, stunned but otherwise unharmed – Crowley.

But even as Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief, he knows that nothing from this day forward will ever be the same.

"Wha-what did you do?" Crowley looks at his hands, turning them over and over in front of his eyes, examining them as if they're strangers to him. He touches his face, fingertips pulling his skin, searching for answers within the wrinkles and pores. When he can't find them, he stares up at Aziraphale, wide eyes begging without words to tell him what the Heaven is going on. Crowley can't see the change, but he can feel it, deep within his chest where something new and awesome and excruciating has begun to fill that void … and steadily beat. "Aziraphale!? What did you _do_!?"

"The only thing I could think of to save you, dear boy." Aziraphale drops to his knees, cursing himself, cursing Sandalphon and Gabriel and all the Archangels … even cursing God herself. "I made you mortal."


End file.
